Page 8 of Between a Duke and a Hard Place (The Honeywells #1)

Chapter Seven

V iolet awoke to an unnatural stillness.

For a moment, she simply lay there, slowly taking stock and making sense of her unfamiliar surroundings. The great canopy bed she occupied was far more extravagant than the one she was accustomed to, the mattress softer, the sheets finer. Even the air smelled different—faintly perfumed with lavender and cloves and beeswax. Perhaps, underneath it all, was the faintest lingering scent of woodsmoke from the hearth.

As her mind slowly sorted through the unfamiliar surroundings, the events of the previous day came crashing back to her. She was married. To Maxwell Able, the insufferable Duke of Alstead.

Groaning into her pillow, she resisted the urge to pull the blankets over her head and pretend, for just a little while longer, that this was all some dreadful misunderstanding. But the steady sound of breathing near the fireplace put an abrupt end to such fantasies.

Turning her head cautiously, she caught sight of Max, still asleep, sprawled unceremoniously on the floor like some fallen warrior. He had refused to share the bed. Refused so thoroughly, in fact, that he had not even considered the possibility of doing otherwise.

And while Violet hadn’t known, from the outset that theirs would be a marriage of convenience, after reflecting upon it during the first sleepless hours of the night, she wasn’t surprised. And she’d resigned herself to a marriage that would be devoid of intimacy, devoid of passion, that—though a married woman—she’d likely remain virginal and largely ignorant until the day she died. Their arrangement, after all, was not born of passion or longing, but of necessity. While that rankled her to some degree, it was his apparent eagerness to keep his distance that truly stung.

It had been one thing for Max to insist upon a practical union. It was another entirely for him to react to the idea of lying beside her as if she carried some sort of contagious affliction. Even if he hadn’t wished to consummate their marriage, was lying beside her such a revolting prospect that a night on the hard floor was preferable?

He had not even entertained the possibility. Not even joked about it. Not even looked at her twice. Her pride bristled at the thought. She was not some great beauty. Sonnets and odes to her glory had never been written or even considered. But she was passably pretty. She had a good figure and nice hair, a clear complexion if a bit freckled from being outdoors. There was nothing about her that should be that wholly unappealing.

The least he could have done was pretend to struggle with the idea. Perhaps he might have wrung his hands dramatically, lamenting his tragic fate at having to resist the allure of his new wife. But no. Instead, he had taken one look at their wedding bed, declared it hers alone, and proceeded to make himself a very comfortable pile of blankets on the floor.

She turned onto her side, arms crossed as she glared at him.

Max shifted in his sleep, brow furrowing slightly, but otherwise remained utterly unperturbed. It was infuriating. With a great huff, she threw back the blankets and stood, the wooden floor cool beneath her bare feet. Stalking toward the washbasin, she splashed cold water onto her face, silently cursing every inch of the man currently sleeping soundly on the floor behind her.

“I can feel your irritation from here, Violet,” Max’s voice, still rough with sleep, rumbled behind her.

She whirled around to find him propped up on one elbow, his hair deliciously mussed, his eyes still heavy with sleep. The open neck of his shirt had slipped down, revealing skin far more bronzed than was typical of a member of the aristocracy. But it was the crisp, dark hair amidst that V of white linen that drew her gaze, that immediately stoked her curiosity.

Pulling her gaze from his chest, she realized that looking at his face was no better. The dark shadow of his morning whiskers only highlighted his strong features and perfectly framed sculpted lips that, in all honesty, were too pretty to sit on such a masculine visage. It was unfair, she decided immediately, that a man could wake up looking like that.

“You should feel my irritation,” she said primly, turning back to the mirror and patting her face dry. “It is very well deserved.”

A sigh. Then the sound of him rising. “Am I to be berated before I’ve even had a cup of tea?”

She turned again, fully prepared to continue her tirade, only to falter slightly when she saw him rolling his shoulders, stretching out the stiffness from his night on the floor.

Curse him and his broad shoulders.

“I suppose I should be grateful that you’re even here,” she said, lifting her chin. “I half expected you to flee in the night.”

Max smirked. “Where would I have gone?”

“Back to your life of carefree bachelorhood, perhaps.”

He let out a short laugh. “Hardly carefree, Violet. Though I do find myself mourning my once peaceful mornings.”

She huffed, turning back toward the washstand, determined to ignore the way her heart had inexplicably twisted at his words.

He did not regret marrying her. Not really. Did he?

She shook herself, unwilling to dwell on such thoughts.

“We have much to do today,” Max said, pulling on his discarded coat. “No doubt the entirety of the county is already buzzing with the news of our marriage.”

Violet groaned. “Which means we shall have visitors.”

“Indeed.”

“Do you suppose your mother will be the first to arrive, demanding explanations?”

Max winced. “Without a doubt.”

She sighed. “Wonderful.”

“It will be for you. She adores you,” he said accusingly. “I’ll be raked over the coals worse than when I was a boy at school.”

Glancing back at him as she removed the plaits from her hair before beginning the arduous task of brushing it, she simply arched her eyebrow. “Are you expecting sympathy?”

His gaze was fixed on the wealth of dark red hair now spilling over her shoulder. It was truly a ludicrous amount, Violet knew. Her hair had long been the very bane of her existence. It seemed to defy all efforts to tame it.

“Never that,” he finally managed. “I daresay you are incapable of that emotion… at least where I am concerned. But we do need to stop snapping at one another long enough to come up with a feasible explanation for our hasty marriage.”

She sighed. “It can’t be the truth.”

“No,” he said. “It can’t. We must decide how we are going to convince the world that we are, in fact, utterly devoted to one another.”

Violet turned away from him to brush her hair in the mirror, but she could still see his face in the looking glass. “Oh? Are we not already the very picture of matrimonial bliss?”

Max smirked. “Yes. Nothing says ‘happily married’ like verbal lacerations prior to breaking our fast.”

She scowled but simply turned away.

“I shall meet you in the dining hall,” he said. “Do try to compose yourself before then, darling.”

He departed swiftly, leaving Violet muttering unkind things under her breath.

Because, as always, Max had managed to get the last word.

And she absolutely hated when he did that.

The breakfast room at Wellston Hall had been unbearably tense since the moment Ethella Cavender had seated herself at the head of the table. Violet’s disappearance had left everyone on edge. Of course, Ethella had an inkling where the girl had gone. After all, they were in the middle of nowhere—the very wilds of Yorkshire. Resentment bubbled inside her. She could have been enjoying tea in their very comfortable London townhouse, not quite in Mayfair but close enough to it to still be considered fashionable. But instead of that, instead of planning a day of promenading in the park and then shopping on Bond Street, she was surrounded by fields and an inordinate number of livestock.

Nigel, still bleary-eyed from a night spent drinking, was poking unenthusiastically at a plate of eggs, looking as though he would rather be anywhere else.

Ethella, meanwhile, was drumming her fingers against the table, her sharp gaze trained on the door.

The butler entered, carrying a fresh pot of tea, and Ethella immediately pounced.

“Well?” she demanded.

The butler, accustomed to his mistress’s unyielding impatience, merely set the tea down and bowed stiffly.

“A messenger arrived this morning, madam.”

Ethella’s fingers tightened. “And?”

The butler hesitated, as if weighing the wisdom of delivering the news.

“It appears,” he said carefully, “that Miss Honeywell is now the Duchess of Alstead.”

There was a moment of silence.

Then—

A teacup shattered against the marble floor.

Nigel jumped, cursing as his mother rose to her feet, her face an alarming shade of red.

“She what?”

“The Duke of Alstead wed her yesterday morning,” the butler continued, voice deliberately neutral. “They are, by all accounts, now man and wife.”

Nigel, who had paled significantly, ran a shaking hand through his hair. “Well, that’s it then. Eddington will have my hide.”

Ethella ignored him, her mind racing.

“No,” she said, voice dangerously low. “This is not over.”

Nigel blinked. “What do you mean, not over? The girl is married to a duke, Mother. She is well beyond our reach now.”

Ethella’s lips curled.

“Nonsense,” she said. “There is always another way. I will not be impoverished, Nigel. Whatever it takes.”

Nigel swallowed thickly, watching as his mother’s expression darkened with something that could only be described as determination laced with cold-blooded menace.

And suddenly, he was very, very afraid.